Paper Hearts
by Little Miss Insufferable
Summary: Whouffaldi AU. Whouffaldi AU. A chance advertisement in a newspaper leads to a phone call that brings two unlikely people together, but how does anyone cope when they start to fall in love with someone they might never set their eyes upon again?
1. Model Wanted

Every morning brings the same routine: wake up, head downstairs, pick up the paper from the doormat, put the coffee pot on, and read the paper with a mug of coffee clasped in one hand. This morning she's on her second coffee and her eyes still droop wearily. Amy certainly has a lot to answer for after last night.

The paper doesn't hold her interest. Splashed across the front page is a story about a dog who had saved its owner's child after the boy had fallen into a river out on a walk. _Must be a slow news day. _

She doesn't really pay attention to the rest of the stories. Her head is throbbing and she finds she could care less about a middle-aged man lashing out at a delivery company for leaving a parcel on the bonnet of his car. Clara thinks to herself that some people have far too much time on their hands.

It's when she reaches the advertisements that her fingers still on the corner of the page. Over the years she's managed to pick up a handful of bargains from local sellers and it's become a bit of a ritual to scan through the ads every morning. She glances past the usual lists of useless rubbish – people trying to sell old sofas with the stuffing hanging out, or washing machines that only work at 32⁰C at 6 o'clock on a Monday morning. Most of the adverts are a waste of the paper they're printed on, but in the bottom hand corner of the second page is a brief advertisement that catches her eye:

'_Model wanted for experienced artist. No nudity or funny business. Please call 07854326579.'_

Her eyes rake over the short description several times as her brow furrows in thought. It's probably dodgy – bound to be dodgy – but something about it peaks her curiosity. She's never had her portrait drawn before, and with her still on leave from work it's become a struggle to find things to fill her days with. Calling the number couldn't hurt, surely? They'd probably have been inundated with calls already and she'd be wasting her time anyway.

One glance at the clock tells her that it's just coming up for 10:30; plenty late enough for a phone call to be considered acceptable. They're probably out at work anyway… like every other person in the universe seems to be except for her. Not that she's bitter or anything…

She punches the numbers into her phone slowly, taking care to match them exactly to the phone number printed on the paper in front of her. When she's double-checked her accuracy, her thumb hovers uncertainly over the dial button for several moments. The number could belong to anyone. She could be a phone call away from winding up the victim of a vicious serial killer. Or she could be behaving entirely ridiculous. Another moment of hesitation later and she bites the bullet and presses the dial button.

The phone rings four times and there's still no answer. It's enough to leave her on the verge of hanging up when the dial tone cuts out and a distinctly Scottish voice sounds on the other end. "Hello?"

She's so stunned to hear a voice at the other end of the phone that for a moment she doesn't respond. In fact, he has to repeat himself before she clears her throat and forces herself to get a grip. "Sorry- distracted." _Smooth._ "This is probably going to sound a little weird… but I got your number from this morning's newspaper…"

"You mean you saw my advert?" He asks, interrupting her before she can continue with her slightly awkward explanation.

"Yes!" She exclaims a little too enthusiastically in reply. She clears her throat again and makes an effort to come across as at least moderately sane. "Sorry… late night." It's possibly the worst apology she's ever made, but she continues regardless. "Before I… well…. You know- you're not a serial killer or anything, are you? Because I have training in martial arts and I won't be afraid to kick your arse if you try any funny business."

There's laughter on the other end of the phone; it's deep and rumbling and brings a small smile to her face. "What? It's a completely reasonable question!" More laughter. She's about to make another remark in her defence when he finally responds.

"No, I'm not a serial killer." She can hear the smile in his voice as he says it, and somehow the thirty seconds of conversation they've shared gives her enough cause to trust his motives. She thinks to herself that she'd probably be a serial killer's dream come true.

"Good, because the closest thing I have to martial arts training is eleven years of school PE lessons." Clara admits with a smile of her own. If he's lying about his intentions, then she's certainly doomed herself from the start.

"So are you offering to let me draw you? Or do you just phone numbers you come across in the paper and interrogate people on their criminal status?"

Clara can't help but laugh. "As long as you promise I won't have to take my clothes off." She teases gently.

"I'm not interested in anything like that." He replies sharply, and the seriousness of his voice makes her wonder if she's offended him.

"I wasn't implying…" She trails off uselessly and resigns herself to thinking before she speaks in future. "When do you want me to come over? Or did you want to come here?"

There's silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. "It's best if you come here." He answers at last. Then another pause. "When is best for you?"

She mulls the question over in her head. In truth, any time is best for her. Currently her life doesn't consist of much at all, but she doesn't want to come across as someone with nothing better to do with her time. "I'm pretty flexible." She responds non-committedly.

"Would now suit?"

"Now as in right now?"

"Is there any other kind of now?"

Clara pauses, and then decides she doesn't have a reason to say no. "Now is good."

He rattles off his address then, and after a quick goodbye the phone line cuts out at the other end. What she's let herself in for, she has no idea. The man seemed… friendly enough, if a little abrupt. She hopes he's at least be able to uphold a decent conversation.

It takes her just over ten minutes to drive round to the address he's given her. It's a townhouse situated in the centre of a relatively quiet side street. There's a set of stone steps that lead up to the black, shiny front door and towards the top is a large brass knocker. Her hand hesitates as it comes to rest over the metal. She steels herself and knocks firmly on the wood of the door. It swings open so quickly that she almost jumps out of her skin.

From behind the door appears a tall, grey-haired gentleman probably a good couple of decades older than she is. His build is slim and wiry and he's dressed in a pair of tight-fitting black trousers and a navy blue shirt buttoned to the collar. Over the top he wears a dark jacket with a red inner lining that flashes out at her when he moves. He somewhat resembles a magician, but there's something a little more sophisticated about him than that. She reminds herself that artists are known for their bizarre taste in clothing.

"Please, do come in." His voice is soft and coated with a thick Scottish accent. Clara forces her gaze away from him and promptly takes his invitation to step inside. The situation isn't exactly one she's familiar with, and she finds herself stood awkwardly in his narrow corridor.

"Go through into the living room." He tells her as he closes the front door behind them and she doesn't need to be told twice.

There are only two doors coming off of the hallway – the first is the kitchen, and the second she presumes to be the living room. Inside is a worn brown leather sofa, a TV, and a wooden stool placed between the two.

"Take a seat." He murmurs from behind her. Clara eyes the sofa for the briefest of moments before slowly moving to perch on the edge. It's only then that her eyes are drawn to the drawings that cover the walls. Each of them are framed in dark wood, and every one seems to be more beautiful than the last. The figures range from young children to elderly women and everything in between. Clara finds herself staring at the walls in sheer awe.

"Did you draw all of these?" She asks as she draws her attention away from the drawings and back to the man stood in front of her.

"Over the years, yes." His answer is almost dismissive, which surprises Clara. She thinks that if she had half the talent he obviously possessed, she'd be gloating from the rooftops about it.

"They're beautiful." She breathes with a smile. "You're very talented."

There's no reaction from him. He holds her gaze for a moment and then moves to retrieve a pad and a set of pencils from a table beside the door. Clara tries to lighten the mood somewhat. "I guess you don't keep the naked ones on the wall, huh?"

He regards her with a look of slight confusion. "I told you, I don't do that sort of thing." _Sense of humour, obviously non-existent. _

"No- of course not. It was just a joke." She explains hastily. "Admittedly not a very good one." She adds with what she hopes is a genuine-looking smile. There's another moment of silence in which he simply watches her. "So where do you want me?" She asks when he doesn't say anything.

"Where you are is fine. Just sit back a bit and cross your legs." He talks as though he's reading an instruction manual, and she briefly wonders whether he actually has any human contact on a regular basis. A part of her is certain that the answer is no.

Slowly, she pushes herself back to lean against the back of the sofa and crosses one leg over the other. "Like this?"

He eyes her for a moment, his gaze intense, and she struggles to keep from fidgeting under his stare. Then he steps towards her and reaches out as if to touch her face. "Just…" He doesn't touch her, but rather waves his fingers slightly to the right.

"You can touch me if you want. I'm not going to bite." It's said with a slight laugh, but only earns her a frown in response.

"I don't particularly like physical contact." And now it's her turn to frown. She wonders what on earth could have happened to him to leave him with such an issue, but decides it's best not to press the matter. He seems to accept the position of her head anyway because he steps back and takes a seat on the wooden stool opposite her.

The room quickly falls into silence but for the soft scratching of his pencil over the paper. Clara watches his hand move effortlessly as it guides the tip in smooth, practiced strokes. Her eyes map the intricacies of his fingers and admire the way they seem to grip the pencil in them as though he was born with it attached. There are lines on his skin that have come with age, but that doesn't take away from the elegance that seems to radiate from every inch of his hand. She doesn't think she's ever seen anyone exhibit such effortless control over the motions of their fingers.

When she looks up her gaze is met with the intensity of his own. His steely blue eyes fixate on hers, and she finds herself swallowing reflexively. There's something about the way he watches her that brings a rush of heat to her cheeks and she's almost grateful when he returns his eyes to the pad of paper in front of him. _What was that all about? _

"Do you draw a lot?" She asks, more as a way of distracting herself than out of any real desire to break the almost pleasant silence that had settled between them.

He's focused on drawing what looks like the outline of her hair and doesn't answer for several beats. "I used to." The response seems to pose more questions than it answers.

"But you don't anymore?"

"No." His pencil has stilled, and he seems to be avoiding looking up at her face again. "This will be my last portrait." She watches as his fingers tap against the pencil for something to do as he continues to avoid looking at her.

"Why?" She doesn't really expect him to answer. They hardly know each other and now she's just being nosey.

When his eyes finally lift to meet hers, an emotion she can't quite place flashes across them. It's somewhere between broken and resigned. "Because very soon I won't be able too anymore." It's not a sentence that begs for sympathy – it's a statement uttered as plainly as this morning's weather. Then he's back to focusing on the movement of his pencil over the paper in front of him.

Clara knows she shouldn't press the matter. She knows she's pushing the boundaries of pleasant conversation with someone she's just met, but despite what she knows her mouth opens to speak anyway. "Why won't you be able to draw?"

The steady motion of his drawing doesn't falter, and if the question phases him he certainly doesn't show it on his face. He gives a quick glance up at her nose and then continues to work in silence. The time that passes before he speaks seems to drag on for hours. It's an uncomfortable moment in which she convinces herself she's over-stepped a line and ruined any chance she had to engage him in friendly conversation.

"I'm going blind." He murmurs in a voice barely above a whisper. Suddenly Clara wishes she hadn't asked the question in the first place.

"Oh god- I'm so sorry." It's the first thing she's able to blurt out, and then she kicks herself for sounding so cliché. Why would he care for her sympathy when he doesn't know her from Adam?

"Don't be." His voice is rough, and somehow his accent seems even heavier. She wonders if he's had to go through all of this alone and feels an even greater pang of sympathy for the stranger in front of her.

Neither of them speak after that. Clara tries her hardest to sit as still as possible as she distracts herself by examining every detail of the man sat opposite with her eyes. She notes the way the muscles in his wrist flex with every stroke, twist or flick of his hand. She watches as his stern brown furrows in concentration when he's focusing particularly hard, and when the corner of his lips quirk upwards into the smallest of smiles when he admires a section he's particularly proud of.

When he pauses and sets his work to one side, Clara's expression turns curious. Then she stares as he climbs to his feet and slowly shrugs out of his jacket. Somehow she finds herself mesmerised by the most casual of actions, and follows the line of the garment as it slips down his arms and over those long, elegant hands. He folds the jacket up neatly and swaps it for the pencil and paper he's set down on the small table beside him. Underneath his shirt is crisp and tight-fitted. The collar sits tightly around his neck and across the chest it clings to the lean muscle underneath. Clara thinks he must have had it tailor made to have it fit him so well.

"Why would you put an advert in the paper as a way of choosing the last person you'll ever draw?" She finally blurts out the question in order to force her thoughts away from his torso.

His shoulders shrug before he replies: "Why not? I don't have a lot of friends or family left to ask, so I thought I'd leave the decision to fate." The extent of his loneliness saddens her.

"Well I hope I haven't been too much of a disappointment." She teases with a smile in his direction. He doesn't notice in his concentration, but straightens up in his seat to look at her a few minutes later.

"On the contrary." Whether it's from his reply or the intensity of his gaze, she finds her cheeks reddening again. If he notices her embarrassment, he doesn't say anything. Instead, he draws her attention to the pad in his lap. "Do you want to see?" He asks with his hands braced to turn the portrait around.

She's surprised by the speed at which he draws, but she supposes that when you've had as long as he has to practice, it must come as naturally as breathing. "I'd love to." There's an excitement to her tone that matches the barely contained grin on her face.

Her bottom jaw hangs down ever so slightly when he turns the portrait around for her examination. Clara knows she doesn't look great that morning – there are bags under her eyes from lack of sleep and her skin has turned that sickly sort of shade that only seems to make an appearance when one is hungover. Yet somehow the portrait that stares back at her is nothing short of beautiful. "You've made me look…"

"If I've made you look awful, you have my sincerest apologies. My eye sight isn't up to much these days." He gets the wrong idea and tries to explain. Clara offers him a reassuring smile in return.

"No- no, there's nothing awful about that… nothing at all." She takes a step closer to get a better look. "It's beautiful."

"I only draw what I see." He dismisses with a simple shrug of his shoulders. Whether it's intended as a compliment or not, Clara feels her cheeks reddening for not the first time that morning. He holds still for her to continue her perusal and adds: "You can have it, if you like."

She finds herself shaking her head immediately "I couldn't possibly take it from you." If this was going to be his last drawing, he'd want something to remember it by – even if he wouldn't be able to see it soon enough.

He eyes her for a moment, before seeming to accept her refusal. The drawing is cast to one side and Clara watches as he runs his fingers through the slightly dishevelled length of his hair. "Thank you." He murmurs quietly as he gets to his feet. "For allowing me to draw you, that is." It's obvious that gratitude isn't something he's accustomed to showing from the way he shuffles his weight between either foot.

"It's been a pleasure." She responds, and thinks to herself that actually it has. Despite their relatively silent encounter, Clara has enjoyed spending time in the company of this sombre, enigmatic man. It almost seems a shame to have to leave so soon.

"Right. Well… I'd better be going. Things to do and whatnot." She lies reluctantly. Her diary for the day is rather empty in truth, but she doesn't want to inflict her presence upon him for any longer than necessary.

"Yes, of course. I'll show you out." There's not exactly joy in his expression as he gestures for her to exit through the living room door. In fact, if she hadn't known any better, she'd have almost believed there to have been a touch of disappointment in his eyes.

Clara heads out into the narrow hallway again and moves towards the front door. One hand reaches out to rest upon the door handle and she pauses. "Draw me again tomorrow." It's a sudden statement that she pulls out of nowhere. She thinks it's the sympathy she feels for his loneliness that has her reaching out to him, but she doesn't stop to analyse her thought processes there and then.

"I'm sorry?" His brow is furrowed in confusion as he seems to try to find some logic in her words.

"I said, draw me again tomorrow." She repeats the order slower this time. "If you're not doing anything else, that is."

"I'm not doing anything." He seems to respond almost automatically.

"Great. I'll see you tomorrow then." She doesn't give him the chance to say no – she doesn't think he'd really object if she did. There's a grin on her lips as she opens the front door and glances over her shoulder to look at him. "My name's Clara, by the way. In case you were wondering."

He smiles the faintest of smiles back and it gives her cause to think she might have wormed her way ever so slightly underneath his hardened outer-skin. "I'm the Doctor." He states. It's a peculiar name if she's ever heard one, and probably not his real one, but somehow it strangely seems to fit. A man like him is far too extraordinary to be given any old name.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Doctor." The title rolls off of her tongue in a way that makes her think she could get used to saying it on a regular basis. Then she steps out of the door and closes it softly in her wake. _Until tomorrow._


	2. Advanced Quantum Mechanics

It's still dark outside when he wakes. Sleep seems to become more of a rarity with every day that passes, but somehow he doesn't find himself caring all that much. He's never been much of a fan of sleep and now he doesn't want to waste what little time he has left to see the world lying with his eyes shut.

The kettle is put on to boil downstairs and the Doctor places an English breakfast tea bag into his favourite mug – it's blue with the distinctive design of a police box printed around it. He adds his customary four sugars and seats himself at the kitchen table with a book. These days he has to wear glasses to read, and even then the book ends up directly in front of his face to make the words legible. He doesn't like to think about the notion that one day soon he won't be able to see the words at all.

Outside, the sun rises without much notice from the Doctor. His nose is so deeply buried in a copy of 'Advanced Quantum Mechanics' that he doesn't acknowledge the hours ticking by in front of him on the kitchen clock until there's a knock at the front door. He glances up in alarm. The clock tells him that two and a half hours have passed since he first sat down at the table to read. He hasn't even taken the time to dress yet and Clara's probably waiting on the other side of his front door.

"Fuck." He curses under his breath and jumps to his feet. Briefly, he considers ignoring the knock and letting her leave, but the idea is discarded as quickly as it comes because a voice in the back of his head reminds him that he'd rather like her company for the morning. There's no time to dress, so he's left with one option – answering the door in his boxer shorts and a vest.

A second knock comes before he makes it to the door, and he steels himself before tugging it open to reveal a far more respectable looking woman on the other side. "Apologies for my state of undress… I lost track of time." He explains hastily before she can comment. She seems to do little more than stare in reply, so he continues: "Just come in and make yourself at home. I won't be a minute." There's some more staring, during which he finds himself feeling extremely exposed, before she seems to snap out of it and looks up at him with a slight smirk.

"No need to apologise. I don't mind." It might be his imagination, but he swears he detects a hint of suggestion to her reply. He pushes the thought to one side and steps back to allow her entry into the house. Clara peruses him for a moment longer. "Nice…" There's a pause and he feels his eyes widen in his head. "Glasses." She finishes with a grin and steps into the narrow hallway of his house.

With a clear of his throat, the Doctor turns away and hurries up the stairs to find something to put on that doesn't make him feel as though he's bared for all the world to see. In his wardrobe he finds a pair of dark grey jeans and slips into them in a hurry. He slides a belt around his waist and changes his vest for a black long-sleeved shirt. On his feet he puts a pair of navy blue socks and gives himself a quick glance in the mirror. _Much better. _His hair is still a little on the dishevelled side, but he can't bring himself to care all that much. He slips off his glasses, places them on the dresser and heads back downstairs to find Clara.

She's stood with her back to him when he walks into the living room, one of the many portraits he keeps displayed on his walls hanging in front of her. He clears his throat from his position a few feet behind her. It makes him smile ever so slightly when she jumps, even if it probably shouldn't.

"Do you make a habit of sneaking up on people like that?" She cranes her neck to look back at him over her shoulder.

"Well it's usually just me here, and in my experience it tends to be rather difficult to sneak up on yourself." Sarcasm finds its way back into his tone as his hands slide into the depths of his pockets.

Clara ignores the remark and turns her attention back to the portrait in front of her. "Who is she?"

The Doctor pauses for a moment before answering. His eyes roam over the detailed drawing of a woman reclining on his sofa and a small, sad smile finds its way onto his lips. "She was my wife." He states softly. _Melody Pond. _It's taken him some time to be able to look at the drawing without finding tears in his eyes. Even now, a lump situates itself in his throat at the memory of her and he's uncertain whether the topic is one he's really comfortable discussing.

"Was?" From the sound of her voice alone, he can tell that the question is one Clara had hesitated on. Nobody keeps pictures of their estranged wives on their living room wall – the answer to her question hangs in the air without any need to say it.

"She died." He murmurs anyway.

"I'm sorry." It's the sympathetic response he's become accustomed to hearing since the incident. There's a moment of silence in which neither of them say anything, and then Clara breaks it with: "she was beautiful."

"Yes." He can't deny it because it's true – Melody had always been beautiful. In truth he'd probably never really been good enough for her.

After what seems like an eternity of silence, the Doctor finally clears his throat and turns away from the drawing on the wall. "Anyway, enough of that. I don't like to dwell on the past." He brushes off the topic because to dwell on it puts him in a mood he doesn't want to be in around Clara. "Can I interest you in a cup of tea?" It's an effective way to cut off the conversation.

Clara seems to hesitate for a moment, before turning around to face him with a smile. "I'll have a coffee instead if it's going."

He mutters something about women being fussy under his breath and hears the sound of her giggling behind him as he stalks off into the kitchen. Thinking about it, he should have had her pegged as a coffee person.

The kettle's on and he's reaching for a couple of mugs in the cupboard when Clara's voice sounds from behind him. "Advanced Quantum Mechanics… Bit heavy for a Tuesday morning, don't you think?" She remarks and he finds himself smiling.

"I get bored easily. I like to keep my mind active." There's a shrug of his shoulders as he makes the remark casually. He's always had a wandering mind, and keeping it stimulated helps to stop him from going completely insane. Sometimes he wonders whether losing his eye sight will push him over that bridge. "Besides, I might as well make the most of my eyes whilst they still function semi-effectively."

There's the sound of a few pages turning behind him. "But how do you even understand any of this?" She asks, puzzled.

He shrugs his shoulders, places a spoonful of coffee into a mug and pours boiling water from the kettle over the top. "I'm a clever man." It's stated like a fact. He says the words as though he's telling her that the Earth goes around the Sun, or that gravity is the force that draws a dropped pen to the ground. "Sugar?" His hand hovers over the pot of sugar as he waits for a response.

"Not a particularly modest one though." Clara teases and he hears the hint of a smile in her voice. Another pause and the turn of a few pages, before he hears her set the book back down on the table. "Just milk, thanks."

"I don't believe in modesty." He quips back as he sets about pouring himself a mug of tea. When he turns around, he sets her coffee down in front of her and moves to take the seat opposite at the kitchen table.

"Actually, that doesn't surprise me." There's a half-smile on her lips as she brings the mug of coffee up to them. He quirks an eyebrow at her curiously. "You have a sort of… egotistical air about you." She answers his wordless question and he gives her an affronted look.

"Charming." He regards her over the brim of his own mug, and she laughs.

"It's not necessarily a bad thing… some women like a man with an ego." The Doctor thinks it's supposed to be reassuring, but it just brings an uncomfortable rush of heat to his cheeks. Clara seems to find this equally amusing and he hides his reddened cheeks behind his police phone box mug.

For a moment they simply watch one another. "So where are you going to draw me today?" Clara finally asks as she warms her hands around the mug of coffee. He's never been one for feeling the cold, but he wonders if perhaps he ought to turn the heating up a bit given that it's the middle of December.

There's a pause during which he ponders his options. "On the windowsill in the living room, I think." He muses out loud in response. Outside it's grey and dismal, but it should provide a stark contrast against Clara's bright radiance.

Silence descends over the kitchen as they both sip their respective drinks. Occasionally he glances up to find her watching him, and then promptly stares down at the cover of 'Advanced Quantum Mechanics' to keep himself from growing embarrassed under her continued gaze. He's not sure why she'd choose to look at him of all things anyway.

"Right. Ready to draw then?" Clara finally asks after finishing the last of her coffee. He follows her lead and promptly swallows the last mouthful of tea in his mug.

"As ever." He remarks and pushes himself to his feet. Then his eyes are drawn back down to the book on his table and his brow furrows in thought. "Could you read this for me?" His fingers reach out to pluck the book off of the table as he poses the question to her.

There's a look of confusion on Clara's face when he looks over at her. "Why would you want me to read that? I'm an English teacher, not a Mathematician."

"It's Physics." The Doctor corrects on instinct.

"Well I don't teach that either!" She looks exasperated now and it almost makes him laugh.

"You don't actually have to read it. Just pretend for the sake of this portrait." A smile finds its way onto her lips as he explains.

"Okay, I think I can manage that." He's glad to hear her agree and promptly hands the book over to her. She reaches out to take it from him and her fingers brush ever so lightly against his. Instantly, he jolts back as though she burns and notes the way her brow furrows up at him. He doesn't stick around to explain his discomfort over being touched again and disappears out of the kitchen to set up his easel.

He hears her footsteps on the carpet behind him as he's pulling up his stool. "Just sit on the windowsill with your knees bent and look as though you're reading the book." It probably doesn't require an explanation, but he feels he needs to break the silence somehow. Clara does as she's told without complaint and positions herself on the windowsill with the book.

"Like this?" Her head turns towards him for clarification and he nods sharply in reply. She turns her gaze back down to the book in her hands and he lifts his pencil to the paper in front of him and starts to draw. Reading has become difficult, although he'll be damned if he gives up trying any time soon, but drawing is like second nature. His eye sight is failing and yet he still manages to capture every detail in his portraits. It's only the thought of watching his view of the world around him fade day by day with every portrait he draws that really gets to him. It was one of the many reasons he'd made the decision to make yesterday's drawing his last one. Then Clara had jumped into his life and brought today along with her.

"What does Fourier transform mean?" She asks as he's sketching the outline of her hands. The Doctor's brow furrows both in concentration and curiosity.

"I thought you didn't want to read that."

"Turns out it's rather hard not read something when you're forced to stare at it for long periods of time."

His fingers guide the pencil along the curves and contours of hers, filling in the intricacies of her hands as he thinks. "It's a function of time." He explains vaguely. To go into more detail would not only bore her, but probably confuse her to match.

Neither of them say anything as he continues to draw and Clara continues to read the page in front of her. Then she breaks the silence with an exasperated sigh. "Couldn't you have chosen even a marginally more interesting book than this? This season's Argos catalogue would make for more exciting reading."

"I don't keep the Argos catalogue lying around." He catches her roll her eyes at that.

"So you don't have any other books in your house at all?" She's struggling to keep her head in position in favour of wanting to turn to face him instead.

"I do, but they're all upstairs." He doesn't want to admit that he wanted to draw her reading this specific book.

She frowns. "Well couldn't you have gone upstairs and picked another one?"

"No."

An exasperated sigh. "You're insufferable."

"You were the one who invited yourself round again." He explains simply as he starts to add in the finishing touches to his drawing. He doesn't add that he's quite grateful that she did.

"And I'll be inviting myself round again tomorrow." The surprise on his face is hard to hide – not that Clara has taken her eyes off of the book in her hands since he started to draw.

"Surely you must have better things to occupy your time with than posing as a life model for a half-blind artist." It's a statement he whole-heartedly believes. He has never been the best of company, in fact he often wonders how he managed to convince anyone to agree to marry him, and with Clara sitting at a good couple of decades younger than him, he can't quite comprehend what she could possibly find to desire in his company.

"Actually, not really." It's not something she sounds ashamed to admit. "I'm not sure what that says about me though." She adds with a soft burst of laughter.

"Everything." He responds on instinct. Then he catches himself and hastily spits out: "I mean nothing." He takes a moment to clear his throat, adds a touch more definition to her nose and then sits back to observe the finished product. The lines are blurred through his damaged eyes, but from what he can see it's no worse than the portrait he drew of her yesterday. Slowly, he lifts the pad up from the easel and turns it in his hands to show Clara. It takes her a moment to notice he's finished, but when she does she swings her legs down off of the windowsill and steps closer to take in the drawing.

"I really don't know how you manage to draw so perfectly… It's beautiful, again." She remarks in a slightly awe-struck tone. Reaching out, she ghosts her fingers feather-lightly over the lines on the paper and smiles. "I look forward to seeing what you come up with tomorrow."

"I haven't said yes to you coming over yet." He states matter-of-factly. There's a voice in the back of his head that laughs at him for even thinking he could say no to her company. It's only her second visit and already he can feel himself getting used to her company in a way he really ought not to be.

"No, but you will." There's a smirk on her lips now.

"And you call me arrogant." The Doctor wonders when he made the conscious decision to engage in teasing her.

"Maybe I don't believe in modesty either." She steps away from him and moves towards the door and the smirk on her lips seems to broaden. It's almost enough to make him smile in return. "Until tomorrow, Doctor." It's an effective goodbye and he watches as she disappears out of the living room door. He thinks he likes the way his name sounds when she says it, and promptly curses himself for having such thoughts in the first place.

When he hears the sound of the front door closing behind her, he turns his attention to the portrait still clasped in his hands. His gaze flicks up towards a space on the wall near the window and he decides that Clara reading his favourite book would fit quite well there.


	3. The Doctor's Jumper

"Sit _still._" The Doctor chastises as Clara finds herself absentmindedly fiddling with a strand of her hair again. She tries to give him an apologetic look, but just ends up sighing instead.

"Sorry- it's just… aren't you nearly finished already? All this sitting around is making me restless." She explains as she resists the urge to let her head fall back against the park bench she's sat on and take a nap to pass the time.

"You can't rush these things." He barks back impatiently. The edge of frustration to his tone causes her to frown. She also notes the way he seems to narrow his eyes at the sketch pad on his lap as though it's done something to physically offend him. Granted, in the week since she started acting as a model for his portraits he hasn't come across as a particularly cheerful man, but his current expression is grumpy even for him.

"Doctor… is everything alright?" Her voice is tentative as she watches him rub out a small section of the sketch irritably.

"Everything's fine." It doesn't take a psychiatrist to know that he's lying. Clara briefly considers letting the subject drop, before remembering the way her fingers are slowly freezing solid and deciding that she doesn't much fancy sitting out in the cold for longer than she really has to whilst he scowls at a sheet of paper all day.

"You're lying." She states matter-of-factly.

The Doctor's hand stills on his pencil as he lets out a barely audible sigh. It's only now that Clara notices just how tired he looks. He often looks tired, but the dark circles under his eyes seem to have grown more prominent overnight. "It's taking longer to draw you because my eyes are playing up." He speaks as though it pains him to say the words, and Clara watches the way his knuckles whiten as his grip tightens on the pencil he's holding. "I just can't focus." He bites out. She thinks the pencil might snap in his hold if he doesn't relax soon.

The need to comfort him is instinctive. Without thinking, Clara sits forward on the bench and reaches out to place her hand gently over his. He flinches away from her as if burned and then she remembers his aversion to physical contact. With a frown she mumbles an apology and sits back on the bench in her original position. Despite knowing it's nothing personal, it's a little hard not to be offended.

"It's fine. I'm almost done." There's a pause and then he goes back to drawing as though the conversation had never occurred.

They sit in silence for several moments, the Doctor's brow furrowed in stern concentration as he focuses intently on the movements of the pencil in his hand. Clara tries her best to be patient, but once again it's proving difficult to resist the urge to fidget. He looks as though he's about to open his mouth to snap at her for moving when a clap of thunder sounds from up above.

The both of them barely have time to cast their gaze up to the sky before the heavens themselves seem to open up and they're caught in the middle of a torrential downpour. Clara's on her feet in a heartbeat whilst the Doctor hastily scrambles to try to protect today's portrait of her from the sudden heavy rain. He wastes time unbuttoning his coat to presumably wrap the garment around the sketch pad, but he takes so long about it that Clara forgoes all acknowledgement of personal boundaries and reaches out to clasp his larger hand in hers. If it bothers him this time, he doesn't do much about it because he's running along behind her with his belongings clutched to his chest and his other hand intertwined with hers.

The park is about a five minute walk from the Doctor's house, but at a fast jog they make it back in half the time. The Doctor fumbles about in his pocket for the key, slipping his hand out of Clara's and using it to unlock the front door. They dive into the hallway one after the other, breathless from the run and dripping water onto the carpet.

"Oh god… I'm making a complete mess of your carpet." Clara apologises between pants.

The Doctor brushes her off with a wave of his hand. "It's fine. Can't be helped." She finds his attention is more focused on the ruined sketch in his arms and watches him visibly deflate at the sight. She thinks he reminds her a little of a kicked puppy and it tugs at her heart strings.

"You know… I don't have anywhere to be this afternoon. You can always draw me again if you're up to it." Clara finds herself offering in an attempt to cheer the man in front of her up. His gaze doesn't lift from the sketch pad. "Though this time I think I'll stay inside if it's all the same to you." She adds with a slight laugh.

Finally, he takes his eyes off of the ruined artwork in front of him and fixes her with a measured stare. "You're cold." He states matter-of-factly. Clara hadn't actually noticed the way her body had started to shiver to fight off the cold radiating from her sodden clothing.

"A little, but it's warm in here so I'll dry out quick enough." She brushes him off with a shrug of her shoulders and proceeds to toe off her shoes. In just her socks, she stands at a noticeable inch or two shorter. She has to resist the urge to stand on her toes in order to feel less dwarfed by the Doctor.

Meanwhile, the Doctor shrugs off his sodden jacket and hangs it up on one of the hooks by the door. Underneath, his crisp button-up shirt clings to his torso and she finds herself openly staring at him. His back is to her, but the shirt has turned almost transparent in parts and the muscles of his back and shoulders can be seen visibly through the material. When he turns around, his lean chest is presented to her through equally-transparent cotton and her throat constricts in an involuntary swallow. He's skinny, but his chest is lightly toned with wiry muscle. If he notices her staring, he doesn't say anything.

"You can borrow some clothes." He explains as he runs his fingers through the wet strands of his hair. Clara follows the motion with her eyes and tries not to think about what his hair would feel like under her own touch. "They won't fit, but at least you'll be dry." His back is to her again and he's making his way upstairs as soon as the statement has left his lips. She hesitates briefly and then follows.

The upper floor of his house is as small as the ground floor. The landing is narrow and there are only two doors leading off of it. Clara supposes that being an artist can't buy you an awful lot when you live on the outskirts of London. She follows him through the furthest door and into his bedroom. It's surprisingly spacious, with a large double bed in the centre, an oak wardrobe pushed up against one wall, a chest of drawers and an armchair in one corner. He's already rummaging through the drawers for something to give her to wear.

"This should do." He remarks after a moment of searching and holds out a navy blue woollen jumper in her direction. It's large enough to sit well down the length of her thighs, but at the very least it should do a decent job of keeping her warm. She takes it from him with a grateful smile.

"Thanks." Comes her brief reply before she's slipping out of her jacket and reaching down to peel off the wet shirt underneath. The Doctor has resumed his rummaging through his clothes and doesn't pay much mind as she pulls off her tights and shimmies out of her skirt.

"You can wear these as-," he cuts off mid-sentence, and Clara resists the urge to burst into laughter at the expression on his face. She's stood in nothing more than her underwear and the Doctor's eyes have widened to the point where she's a little concerned they might pop right out of his head. She might have wondered if he'd never seen a woman in her underwear before if he hadn't mentioned being married once upon a time.

Suddenly he clears his throat and studiously averts his eyes. "I was going to suggest you change in the bathroom." He explains stiffly. Clara still finds herself wanting to laugh at his ridiculous over-reaction to her lack of clothing.

"No point now. I'm all changed." She explains as she hastily tugs his jumper on over the top of her underwear to save him any further embarrassment. Then her eyes drop down to the trousers he's holding out in her direction. "And I'm definitely not wearing those. For starters, they'll never stay up." She remarks and folds her arms across her chest. "Besides, I'm covered up enough even for your delicate sensibilities." It's true of course – the hem of his jumper sits down towards the lower half of her thigh and safely hides her underwear from any prying eyes.

"There is nothing wrong with my sensibilities." There's a touch of huffiness to his response, and Clara thinks he sounds like a petulant school child. Naturally she doesn't say as much, and simply smiles as he turns his back on her again to continue to trawl through his clothing.

Eventually he selects a fresh shirt and a pair of jeans and places both on the top of his chest of drawers. Clara finds herself momentarily distracted by the muscles of his back all over again as he bends over to close the drawer in front of him. She shouldn't stare really, but her brain has come up short when asked for reasons why not and so her eyes have decided to continue in their ogling anyway. Until he turns around yet again and fixes her with a measured stare.

"You can wait downstairs. I won't be a minute." _And there I was thinking he was about to strip off here and now, _Clara thinks to herself with an edge of mild disappointment – not that she should be disappointed. In fact, she makes a mental note to avoid thinking about the Doctor stripping in any respect, because quite frankly it's only likely to stick her on a slope leading downwards.He's given her an effective dismissal, and she decides it's probably best to follow his orders and return to the familiar territory of the ground floor of his house.

Downstairs, she finds herself gravitating towards his kitchen. Being wet seems to put the Doctor in a decidedly huffy mood, so Clara decides that a cup of tea might do the trick in cheering him up. She fills the kettle with water and flicks the switch to turn it on. His favourite mug with the blue police box design is sat at the front of the cupboard and she selects that and another mug for herself. She pops a tea bag into each one and leans against the counter as she waits for the kettle to boil. The last time she'd made a cup of tea for the Doctor, he'd taken one sip and promptly spat it out into the kitchen sink. Then he'd given her a scowl as though she'd just tried to poison him and queried her over what she'd used to make his tea. Apparently a cup of tea with anything short of six sugars is indigestible swill in his opinion. When the kettle boils, she makes sure to add a generous helping of sugar to his this time round.

The Doctor wanders into the kitchen a few moments later, looking as smart and well-dressed as ever. How he manages to look as though he never set a foot outside whilst she's still stood looking like a drowned rat is beyond her.

"I made tea." Clara states as she holds his mug up towards him. He eyes the drink warily and she rolls her eyes. "Don't worry, it's got half the planet's supply of sugar in it." She remarks sarcastically as he takes it from her and takes an experimental sip. Seemingly satisfied, he moves away to stand at the opposite end of the kitchen as she reaches for her own mug.

"So…" She starts between sips of tea. "Where do you want me for this drawing?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Wherever you like. I'll try to make it quick since you'll probably be wanting to get home." He glances away as she speaks, and she thinks there's an edge of bitterness to his tone. It almost makes her smile. As unfeeling as the Doctor likes to make himself out to be, it's quickly becoming obvious that he'd be rather lost without her company.

"Take your time. I don't have anywhere else to be." Somehow her tone manages to come out somewhat flirtatious and she mentally scolds herself to keep her behaviour in check – for now at least. With a small smirk on her lips, she takes another sip of her tea. "My choice then…" She ponders for a moment and then steps forward away from the kitchen worktop. "The leather armchair in the corner of your living room."

He raises an eyebrow at her for a moment, and then downs the rest of his tea and heads out of the room. Clara smiles, mimics his motion and follows him through into the living room. He's already fetching a dry sketch pad from a drawer in one corner of the room, so she heads over and sits down in the dark brown armchair opposite. The leather is cold against her bare legs and she tucks them underneath herself to try to warm her skin a little.

The Doctor moves almost silently around the room as he fetches his supplies and his trademark wooden stool. He perches on the seat a few feet away from her and places the sketchpad in his lap. Next to him sits a small table with an assortment of pencils placed on top of it. He flips open the pad and turns his eyes to hers. She holds his gaze for a moment, and then his eyes move away to roam over the entirety of her frame. Clara thinks that she ought to be the one blushing, but it's his cheeks that turn a light shade of red. With a glance down at her lap, she notices his jumper has ridden up to sit high on her thighs. There's a moment in which she debates tugging it down, but decides that since he can't see her underwear (although he already has so she doesn't think it would matter anyway) he can get over his delicate sensibilities and draw her as she is.

He seems to get over the shock of her bare legs because he starts to draw without a word on the matter. As ever, Clara finds herself distracted by his profile as he focuses on his art. She lets her gaze trail over his face first; his eyes are a light piercing blue and his eyebrows are so bold that she thinks he could probably take bottle caps off with them. The thought makes her laugh, and suddenly those eyes are on hers and those eyebrows are furrowed in confusion.

"What's so funny?" He asks, his pencil stilling on the paper.

"Nothing- nothing at all." She lies badly, and thinks he might push the matter further, but eventually he frowns and turns his attention back to the sketchpad in his lap. Clara quickly turns her attention back to examining him whilst he's not looking. Her eyes move down his nose, pointedly avoiding lingering on his lips for fear of where her thoughts will turn and trailing down his throat to the collar of his shirt. It's a deep shade of purple and meticulously ironed. The buttons are fastened fairly high, so there's no opportunity to ogle the skin of his chest (she's not sure whether that's a good or a bad thing) and her eyes continue their journey down the elegant length of his hands. His fingers move as effortlessly as ever as he draws, the long digits grasping the pencil so lightly she wonders how he hasn't dropped it already. Next comes the waistband of his trousers, and she has to force herself to look back up at his face before her eyes get ahead of themselves.

When her eyes are back on his, she observes his line of sight and tries not to smirk when she spots his gaze on her legs. He's obviously just drawing them, but it's oddly empowering all the same. A sudden urge to inch the hem of his jumper higher on her thighs strikes her and it proves to be too much to resist. Trying to be discrete, she wriggles in her seat and-

"_Clara." _Her name leaves his lips in a low warning growl and she thinks that it should be illegal for anyone to say her name like that. It's a dangerous train of thought and she clamps down on it before it can go any further.

"Are you-," she begins, in an attempt to start a conversation to distract herself. He stops her with a raised hand and she sits back in her seat with a slightly miffed expression. She finds herself watching him in silence until he finally sits back to admire his work.

"It's a bit sketchy, but I didn't want to make you sit still for over an hour again." He states as he turns the drawing around for her inspection. Clara doesn't know why he feels the need to make excuses because as far as she can tell it still looks as beautiful as every other drawing he's made of her.

She turns her eyes to his with a smirk. "Doctor, did you just make a drawing pun?" She asks in referral to his 'sketchy' remark.

The Doctor's expression turns stern. "Absolutely not. I don't make puns." He argues stubbornly, and she laughs. Those fearsome eyebrows shift in confusion and it only causes her to laugh harder. "Stop doing that." It's an order, but one that falls on deaf ears. Clara's found herself with a serious case of the giggles, and now she's all but doubled over in his armchair. "There's not even anything to find funny!"

The stroppier he gets, the harder Clara laughs. It gets to the point where there are tears in her eyes as the Doctor scowls at her with his arms tightly folded across his chest. It takes her another minute or so to completely compose herself and wipe the tears off of her cheeks.

"Are you quite finished?" The Doctor demands of her in what is quite possibly the grumpiest voice she's heard him use to date. It's a struggle not to burst into laughter all over again.

"Sorry, carry on." She responds as she waves an arm at him with a grin.

"I was going to offer to let you keep this one, if you want it." He answers in the same huffy tone he's had since she started laughing at him. Clara smiles and shakes her head.

"I think this one looks like something you might want to keep for yourself." She rejects his offer gently and her smile turns into something closely resembling a smirk. Granted, he won't be able to see any of his drawings sometime in the near future, but she thinks he ought to enjoy them whilst he can.

"What are you insinuating?" Comes the Doctor's defensive reply. Clara supposes it is the raciest thing he's drawn of her yet…

"Nothing at all, Doctor." She assures him, but the slightly mischievous smirk on her lips doesn't help her case. She hears him huff and takes it as her cue to get to her feet. "In any case, I think it's time I got off." Her arms stretch above her head as her mouth opens in a yawn. One glance out the window tell her that it's already dark outside and she wonders just how long she's spent in the company of her enigmatic friend – if she can call him that.

"Of course. I left your clothes to dry on the radiator, so they should be okay for you to change back into." He explains and gets to his feet as well.

"Actually, I thought I'd just go home like this." She explains with a smile and turns to exit the living room.

"You can't go out in public like that." The mild horror in his tone leaves her on the precipice of descending into another fit of giggles.

"Why not? It's not like I'll be walking home… I have got a car." She points out as she starts to climb the stairs to retrieve her clothes from where she presumes he's left them drying.

He doesn't follow and simply shouts up to her from the bottom of the stairs instead. "You're wearing _my _jumper!"

Clara grins to herself. "I know. Personally I think it suits me rather well." She finds her clothes hanging on the radiator in his bedroom and promptly scoops them up into her arms. They're dry, but that doesn't change the fact that she's not going to change out of his jumper.

When she starts to descend the stairs, the Doctor is there to greet her at the bottom with a stern expression that looks a little too forced. "You'd better bring that that back tomorrow then."

She can't help but smirk at that. "Oh, so I'm coming over again tomorrow now am I?" She teases and she knows she's caught him out by the way his mouth opens and closes several times but no words come out. "Relax. I was just going to suggest you come round mine instead."

He looks away from her then, and there's a flicker of emotion on his face that she can't quite describe. "I'm not legally allowed to drive anymore."

The pang of sympathy she feels for him in that moment is enough to almost have her reaching out to hug him. Fortunately she catches herself before she does it – he'd only run half a mile away to spare himself the risk of any further attempts at physical contact. "I'll come pick you up." He clearly goes to argue, but she cuts him off before he can get a word out. "No buts. Do as you are told." Suddenly her teacher side leaps into play and the Doctor seems powerless but to agree.

For what she thinks is the first time that day, he cracks a smiles. "Yes boss."


End file.
